Stories for Serena Delacroix
by astyrian
Summary: Dear Serena...I miss you.  -Kylin
1. Chapter 1

**Stories for Serena Delacroix**

_**2 October 2010**_

Six AM was approaching fast. A good thing too—my car was wrecked, I was wrecked, and it was high time to go home.

Home. A small, bare apartment on the south side, three miles away. Three miles that I would walk, because Astyrian couldn't exactly take the subway; besides, I didn't have any street clothes to change into so that Kylin Wheeler could take the subway instead.

I looked over at my once-beautiful car and sighed. If there's one thing I always fall hopelessly in love with, it's a luxurious car. Mourning the beauty, I ripped out a length of carpet and tore it in half. I stuck the smallest corner into the fuel tank and took a lighter out of my belt. Then I lit the opposite corner of the carpet shred—and ran like hell in the other direction.

My great romance. I left her behind, left her to explode. My heart shattered with her elegant, curved windshield; my soul died with her powerful engine. Bonnie: beloved, beautiful, BMW. I watched her burn from afar until there was nothing left to see. Then I turned heel and slowly limped home, fatigued and starved.

I stared at the sidewalk pass by me with every slow step. More pieces of gum are stuck to sidewalks than I can fathom. There is a chewed-up gob for every person living in this city, and then some. Mostly pink, but all colors are represented, there on the asphalt. Each piece had been jettisoned from a mouth, disregarded, though each piece had once provided pleasure to that mouth. But now, each one, enjoyed and forgotten, had become a dried-up, disgusting wad. A piece of undecaying trash, stuck to the ground, doomed to collect dust and footprints for eternity.

Suddenly, the air became thick, black, and foul-smelling. I searched for the source of the smoke: a funeral home. Just burning someone up. I was breathing a dead person right now. Because _that's_ not strange in the slightest.

I kept walking; slowly, the air cleared up. I continued to observe my surroundings.

A rotten apple core provided a family of ants with a glorious feast, and a chipmunk ran into the bushes, terrified of the oncoming shadowy giant. A homeless man shielded himself with a soiled, empty cardboard pizza box and a young man swept trash out of a pristine diner. Well-dressed businessmen marched out of the fancy lofts, embarrassed to share the streets with those from the crummy apartments next door.

But the tenants of the "crummy apartments" seemed content with their lives. The majority were college students. Energized girls with their iPods, determined to fill their morning running quotas, and slow, lazy couples with their hands in each others' back pockets.

There were plenty of hobos, homeless, and 'bums'. No job, no financial security, no relationship security. No one to turn to except the distasteful public they lived among. The people who would freely give to a charity benefiting those they would never see. The people who would don large sunglasses and pretend to listen to music in order to seem preoccupied, while keeping a tube of mace hidden in their hands.

These are the people I lived with. These are the people who all had a single thing in common: When they saw me, they walked well into the street to avoid me. They all turned down their noses, looking down on me regardless of their height or status. They all _hated _me.

What for? What had I done to personally affront each of them? What had I ever done to deserve the cruel eyes, the concealed snarls, the furious whispers?

They looked at me and saw an object. In their minds, I wasn't a complex human being—I was an overgeneralized monster who preyed on criminals..for now. I was nothing more than a waiting threat.

I couldn't cross the street—too much oncoming traffic to jaywalk. A man in a fancy suit and glasses stood next to me, looked over, and rolled his eyes.

I suppose I may have been a bit too aggressive. "You got a problem?"

Again, he glanced over. Now, he sniffed distastefully.

"Hey, man. I'm planning to save the world after dinner. What are _your _plans?"

He finally looked me in the eyes (as best he could), wondering if I was serious. Then he decided that I was some sort of joker not worth acknowledging, and returned to staring at the passing traffic.

I watched my shadow, making sure that no other shadows were following it. To my relief, nobody who was blocking the sun's rays was behind me, not for quite some distance.

Three miles, but they stretched on forever. Sidewalk after sidewalk, block after block, I saw the underbelly of the city, lit by gentle morning. It appeared fresher, more hopeful than at night, but I knew that wasn't so. A different kind of monster took over now. The morning promised me that by tonight, the old monster would be back, stronger than ever. This was the calm before the storm. The rapists and the murderers, they hid during the day, clearing the streets for the innocents while they plotted away, working on their next escapades.

Three miles, of which I only had one left. Up ahead, a congregation of elderly, chatting, laughing, holding their aching backs for support. They saw me and silenced, as one entity, and then parted on their separate ways, asking themselves what a night creature was doing out _here, _tainting the purity of daylight.

Three miles, and they had been too long. At this point, I didn't have the energy to sneak into my apartment. I didn't care who saw me. My neighbors could think of me as an Astyrian impersonator if they cared enough.

I unlocked the front door. Nobody in the lobby—that was normal. I checked the mail, only to find a single bill—that was normal. I unlocked the second door, walked in, and jabbed the "CALL" button for the elevator—that was abnormal. I usually took the stairs.

The elevator was slow to come. The ancient doors slid open and I entered the cramped, stinking, dinghy compartment, then pressed the button for the third floor a good six or seven times. I then leaned my head against the wall of this horror-movie-worthy contraption, closing my eyes. As long as no ax murderers burst out of the single fluorescent bulb, I would be fine.

The door still hadn't closed. Annoyed, I once again pushed "3", only four times now. Finally, the dilapidated grandfather of an elevator closed the doors and struggled against its own age, weight, and gravity to take me up three floors. Once there, it forgot to open its doors. I sighed—there were no "Door Open" or "Door Closed" buttons, only the absolute basics.

At long last, the elevator groaned and struggled, managing to squeeze its doors open with a creak and a sigh. I stepped into the narrow, dimly-lit hallway, and the sickeningly sweet stench of marijuana wafted over me; I wrinkled my nose. Was my neighbor really smoking at _this _time in the morning? I walked down to my own door, shaking my head. My last iota of energy was expended in unlocking and opening the rotten, flimsy wooden door.

My stomach growled, reminding me of how empty it was. I slammed the door shut and moaned inwardly.

I had forgotten to buy groceries. I had _nothing _edible here.

I ripped my mask off. There must be _something_. In the fridge. In the pantry. Wasn't the kitchen stocked with so much as a bag of chips? A bowl of cereal? A carton of ice cream?

Negative. Just a few spices, some coffee, some sweet creamer. A half-tub of cream cheese and part of a block of regular extra sharp cheddar cheese, which I seized and devoured immediately. A partial jug of milk with today's date stamped onto it, and some wilted, sick-looking lettuce. A full bottle of ketchup, an unopened jar of sweet pickles.

Dear stomach: Calm yourself. You'll be fed soon. Just...not now.

Without changing, I fell headlong onto my rickety bed. My back ached, reminding me that I should invest in a better mattress.

I stuffed a pillow under my back for support and rolled over, forcing myself to leave the world behind and embrace the peace of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Stories for Serena Delacroix**

_**10 October 2010**_

My throat ached; my nose burned. I could hardly breathe.

No, I wasn't stuck in a burning house, trying to rescue a lost child: The truth was far less glorious. I had a cold.

What kind of 'superhero' gets sick, anyway?

But here I was, unable to get myself out of bed. My phone, doubling as my alarm clock, continued playing four notes in a loop, over and over and over and over again. My hand slammed down onto the nightstand, searching for the source of the annoying music.

The music ceased, but my nightstand was nowhere to be found. I opened one eye: Had I managed to _break _the flimsy thing? Sure enough, it was in pieces on the carpet.

I drifted off to sleep once more, and woke up about an hour later, when my phone started to go off again. Sleepily, I answered it, only to find that I had no voice.

But nobody was on the other line. I stared at my phone, confused. There was no missed call. Just another notification from my alarm clock.

Irritably, I tried to fall asleep again. It was a lot more comfortable asleep than awake.

It only took half an hour this time before my phone began screaming a third time. I seized the device, enraged—why didn't it allow me any peace?

This time, there _was _somebody on the other line. More specifically, Adam, the chief of police—the man who signed my paychecks. "'Lo. Astyrian." I sounded like a cross between a frog and a creaky door.

"_Astyrian_? Are you okay?"

"Sure. Fine. What's going on?"

"There's been a robbery at the bank of 21st Street. Are you up for it?"

"Up for what? Follow up?" I sighed, and broke out into a vicious cough. "No. Have your cops do it. I'm taking a day off."

"You've _never _taken a day off. I hope you get better!" No, he didn't. He just wanted me better so that I could take the work off the police's hands. They were too busy eating donuts and sipping coffee to do what they were paid to. The amount of corruption in this city is saddening—when you find cops competing against street racers, you know there's a problem.

"Thanks." With that, I hung up.

It was almost noon. Staying in bed would do me no good. I attempted to swing my legs over the bed and stand; shakily, I managed. This was the first morning in years that I wasn't craving a cup of coffee. In fact, I wasn't hungry in the slightest.

But I _did _suddenly want chicken soup. Just imagining how good my throat would feel made the work worth it. Except…how _does _one make chicken soup? I Googled a recipe, and to my surprise, there was a Wikipedia entry, which was unhelpfully informative. Many other recipes called for spices that I didn't have, such as tarragon and lemon zest. I hadn't even heard of lemon zest before. I don't cook much, but when I do, I make simple things with simple ingredients.

The last one didn't look too bad: butter, onion, celery, chicken broth, vegetable broth, noodles, carrots, basil, oregano, chicken. I had all of those ingredients, except for the celery and the vegetable broth. But did I really need them?

My head ached from staring at the LCD screen. I had so much work to do—how did the illness come at such an inopportune time? There were people to be saved, dishes to be washed, and a GPS to repair. And what was I doing? Trying to figure out how to cook chicken soup to make myself feel better.

Who was I kidding? I had heard somewhere that all illnesses are just mental. If I _thought_ I wasn't sick, I wasn't, right? I told myself again and again that I was fine, healthy as can be. My throat _didn't _hurt; my nose _wasn't _stuffy. I would be jumping off rooftops again in no time.

Soon, it would be time to go to my "day job": teaching martial arts to kids. It was a simple enough job that hardly paid and took little time: only four hours a day, five times a week. But it was exceedingly enjoyable. I loved everything about the job: the little fists punching my hand, trying in vain to break it, the overzealous parents who threw their souls into their children, the grumpy teenagers who thought they knew it all.

I smiled at the thoughts—and erupted into a volcano of coughs.

For the first time ever, I called in sick to work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Stories for Serena Delacroix**

_**18 October 2010**_

Parties are wonderful things.

They're supposed to be, anyway.

In actuality, they're terribly awkward events where everyone looks nice, acts nice, and quite possibly hates your guts but is too polished to tell you so.

In most parties, the feelings of awkwardness are masked by heavy drinking. But I don't drink. It clouds both mind and judgment—when decisions are so hard to make in the first place, who needs that? I suppose the answer is that drinking makes you more assertive in what you want.

That is, if you translate "what you want" to mean "worst decision possible".

I walk into the party, not knowing what to expect, only to see colorful, spinning tops dancing around the ballroom, filling it with the beauty and grace it had often witnessed before. I take a nearby seat and continue to watch the people dance.

The colorful mass parted and joined; bonds formed and broke. It looked like chaos; it looked choreographed. But then the crowd suddenly parted, and one lost soul was left alone. Her movements were not graceful: They were jerky. Her eyes sparkled with mindless joy. She was not aware that she was not alone. She had no self-conscious. At first, I pitied her: the knee-jerk reaction of a 'normal person' to a 'less developed' one.

But who am I to say that I'm normal? Why am I necessarily smarter or better than her? Because calculus comes naturally to me? Because I spend most night beating robbers to a pulp? No, sir.

I am not better than her. In fact, it is the opposite. The fact that she was there, in the center, wearing sneakers under her dress, made her better than me.

She had no sense of self. It made no difference whatsoever what others thought of her.

How I envied that lucky woman.

If it is considered a flaw when one can stare right into the eyes of distaste and then do what the heart truly desires, then there is something wrong with the world.

I watched her dance, watched others snicker at her, watched her not care.

I was confined to the side, imprisoned by my sense of self-consciousness.

She was free.


	4. Chapter 4

**Riddler? **

I had been avoiding checking my email for several days. I didn't want to deal with the many complaints of people who wanted my help. But I could avoid it no longer.  
To my surprise, someone had sent me a link to a YouTube video. Curious, I opened it, watching with rapt attention.

"En guarde!"  
A foppishly dressed man jumped out from behind the Dumpster, looking all the world like an incarnation of Cyrano de Bergerac, complete with a sword and overlarge nose. The attackee, a nondescript Caucasian man, reacted like any normal human: He laughed.  
The Cyrano character frowned, then brandished his sword. "Do you dare challenge me, you...nonentity?"  
"Nonentity? Really? Man. I don't think I've ever been called that. I mean, never. Wow. So who are you supposed to be, anyway?"  
"Me? I am your Riddler."  
"My riddler, huh? Well, why didn't you say so before? I've always wondered what my riddler looked like. What are you supposed to be doing for me?"  
"I plan to riddle you mad."  
"Right. Okay. Well. While you figure out how to do that, I'm gonna leave. I've got to meet my buddy for our racquetball game."  
"You are meeting nobody but me, Mr Thompson."  
Mr Thompson was taken aback, with good reason. "How do you know my name?"  
'Thompson's Riddler' replied with a question of his own. "How do crazy people get through a forest?"  
"What?"  
"It's simple, my man! They take the psychopath! Don't you get it?"  
"Mhm. That's nice. I'm leaving now."  
"I told you you're meeting no one else, did I not?" With that, Thompson's Riddler pulled out a gun and fired no less than seventeen times until the firearm clicked empty. With that, he turned and walked away, cloak swishing in his wake.

Despite the severity of what I had just seen, I found myself laughing.  
I heard a gasp behind me and turned. "Jared? You saw that?" I don't think it's good parenting when a kid sees a video of a man getting murdered that was posted on the Internet over your shoulder.  
He nodded. "Why are you laughing?"  
"Don't you get it?" He shook his head. "Mr Thompson. He was riddled to death." Jared still looked confused. "He was bullet riddled!" I laughed again. "The Bullet Riddler. What a guy. He shouldn't be too hard to find, don't you think?"


End file.
